


Rough Days

by AgentStannerShipper



Series: Domestic Avengers [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia, Domestic Avengers, Domestic Violence, F/M, I think?, M/M, Multi, Nightmares, PTSD, Red Room
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-01-01 02:21:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This will be a collection of one-shots, in the same universe as Domestic Avengers, but not in a particular order. It's all the ideas I had for that universe that were darker (aka, not fluff), and wanted to post. </p><p>This is rated Mature just in case, because of domestic violence, and other things that will appear and be tagged as I update.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Post-Mission Effects

It started like most of their fights usually did: with Tony getting drunk. This time it had been a mission that had gone very, very badly that caused Tony to drop his inhibitions and just drink. Bruce, sitting on the couch across from Tony, had gotten used to the amount of alcohol consumed in the mansion, and though it still usually put him on edge he could at least be in the same room without hyperventilating. He had seriously improved with that.

Steve clearly felt bad about the botched mission, Bruce noted idly. It was obvious in the slump of his shoulders, and how the Captain seemed to be taking a leaf out of Bruce’s book and making himself as small as possible. Bruce did it whenever he felt like he was going to be confronted, which wasn’t all that often anymore.

Steve stayed standing, as opposed to everyone else in the room, looking like a lone island in the middle of the living room. Clint had collapsed on the couch next to Bruce, only their knees touching, but only inches apart. Natasha was seated on the floor next to the couch, one hand reaching up to grip Clint’s, the other wrapped tightly around Bruce’s ankle, as if she was afraid of drifting away. Thor was on the loveseat, taking up the entire thing, his head in his hands, looking utterly defeated. Tony had his own chair, which on better days he insisted the Bruce (or Pepper, or Steve, etc.) share with him. He looked almost murderous, and Bruce didn’t blame him. Your entire team losing to someone whose whole purpose was to get revenge on you specifically had to be awful. Bruce was glad none of his demons had tracked him down yet.

“Tony, I’m sorry,” Steve said softly.

“Fuck you,” Tony said in a monotone, not even looking up. Bruce flinched automatically, and then forced himself to relax.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Steve persisted quietly, knowing Tony blamed himself for the team’s failure.

Tony stood up abruptly, drink clutched so tightly in one hand that the knuckles were white. His face was contorted into a snarl, “damn right it wasn’t.” Oh, this wasn’t going to be pretty. “It was your fault,” Tony spat out, “you’re supposed to be our leader! So why the hell don’t you lead?”

“Tony,” Bruce began softly.

“Stay out of this, Banner,” Tony snarled, at the same time Steve said, “It’s all right, Bruce.” Even with Steve’s reassurance, Bruce shrank down, away from Clint and Natasha, withdrawing into his own little bubble. Bruce hated it when he was “Banner” to Tony, especially since other times Tony would hug him, and call him his science bro, and kiss him when the thunder made him wake up in the middle of the night. Bruce, with his carful separation of people, sadly recalled that Tony plus being drunk plus something bad equaled someone who wasn’t Tony. It was math, and you didn’t even have to be a scientist to understand it.

Tony was getting into Steve’s space now, drink sloshing out of the glass from his jerking, unsteady movements. “I think you’ve had enough to drink,” Steve said evenly, reaching for the glass. Tony dropped it, and Bruce winced at the muffled clatter of glass on carpet-covered wood.

“You don’t have the right to make decisions for me,” Tony ground out, “not until you can make decisions for the team that don’t end up with us almost getting killed!” Steve visibly flinched, which was unusual for the super soldier. Tony was playing on what haunted Steve at night. Bruce would know; he seemed the favorite pick to talk to about nightmares. As if he didn’t have enough of his own.

“I’m trying,” Steve almost whispered, shame in every syllable.

“Not hard enough!” Tony retorted, every bit as loud as Steve was quiet.

“Tony, you’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Like hell I don’t!” Tony snapped.

“You need to-“

There was the sound of skin connecting with skin, and Bruce froze. Tony had slapped Steve across the face. Steve didn’t look any more than annoyed, but that didn’t matter to Bruce. All he knew was that he was very suddenly somewhere, sometime else, without the almost soothing presence in his mind to protect him. He barely heard Tony yelling, “I don’t need to do anything! Lay off me!”

“Hey, doc,” a voice in his ear murmured, “you okay?” Bruce, trapped in a hell of his past, was to frozen to answer. A hand gripped his wrist, and another gripped his shoulder, much more present than the fight raging on just beyond the person leaning over him. “Bruce, hey. What’s wrong?” Clint’s grip tightened, trying to pull him back to reality, back to the present. But the echo in his mind of Tony’s hand connecting with Steve’s cheek kept him from resurfacing. Bruce thought he had escaped domestic violence long ago. Apparently, he was wrong.

“What’s wrong with him?” Natasha asked, her voice strangely quiet in contrast to Clint’s.

“I don’t know!” Clint said, frustrated.

The hands were replaced with the gentler touch of Natasha, no longer clinging to his ankle, “Bruce. It’s okay. What happened?”

And suddenly, Bruce wrenched himself back into the present, “make it stop!” His voice was rough, but had an odd echo that abruptly stopped the yelling. Everyone was looking at him, Natasha clutching his hand between her own, Clint partially obscuring his view of the others. Tony and Steve were only a foot away from each other, posture still tense, but attention temporarily diverted to Bruce. Thor had lifted his head, seeming mildly curious.

Bruce blushed ever so slightly, not fond of the sudden attention. He stood, feeling unstable on his feet, moving across the room without a word. He glanced back at the door, feeling eyes watching him, and then disappeared through the door and down the hall, leaving silence behind.

“What was that about?” Clint asked after a minute.

“Did none of you read his file?” Steve asked, looking like he felt guilty.

Clint shrugged, “a little.” There was a chorus of agreement from the others, with the exception of Tony, who still looked furious.

Steve glanced at Tony, a slight from cutting through the guilt, “Bruce experience major domestic abuse as a child. His father beat both him and his mother. I didn’t realize…” He trailed off, the words he didn’t say more powerful than the ones he had.

Psyche evaluations had been required for every member of the team. Everyone had a very clear memory of that day. They had insisted on waiting together. After each session, the emotions had ranged from indifferent (Steve and Thor) to annoyed (Clint and Tony). But Bruce had come out, ashen faced and shaking, and had refused to say anything for the rest of the day.

“So he heard you and Tony yelling, and Tony hit you, so he had some sort of flashback?” Clint asked. Steve nodded, and his Captain America persona was radiated full force at Tony, who finally had the decency to look guilty.

“I didn’t know,” he said softly, words barely slurred.

“You’d think that you’d get to know someone you’re in a relationship with,” Natasha said scathingly.

“You didn’t know it either,” Tony snapped back. Natasha didn’t seem to have an answer for that.

“It’s not like Bruce talks about it,” Clint said awkwardly, like he was trying to defend Natasha but didn’t quite believe his words.

Tony moved towards the door, and Steve immediately said, “Where are you going?”

“To sober up before I do anymore stupid things,” Tony mumbled, leaving the room and a surprised silence behind him.

***

Bruce sat on his bed, the one he’d used back when he’d first moved in, before Tony’s bed had become his usual sleeping spot (although he also frequented Clint and Natasha’s bed). He focused on his breathing to avoid thinking about what had just happened in the living room. There was a gentle knocking on the door, which he ignored, laying back at curling up on the bed, waiting to fall asleep and hoping desperately the his dreams wouldn’t be plagued by demons. And when he finally managed to lose himself in darkness, he was thankful that no dreams came.

When he woke up again, Tony was cuddled up on one side of him, and Steve on the other. Bruce smiled faintly, knowing this was their way of apologizing and letting him know everything was going to be fine. He settled back down, head resting on Tony’s shoulder and hand entwined with Steve’s. He fell asleep, nestled between the two of them, a smile on his face.


	2. Mirror, Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The real reason Bruce looks surprised when Tony or Pepper or whoever tells him he looks adorable isn't because he doesn't think he is (although he's honestly not sure). The real reason is because Bruce doesn't know really what he looks like. He never looks into the mirror, because every time he does, he sees a monster staring back at him. And it's not the Hulk.

It had started out as something he just avoided doing. Like you might avoid taking out the trash until you absolutely had to. It was simpler than people would think, avoiding mirrors. Bruce never even glanced in bathroom mirrors, easily avoided his reflection in shop windows, and never gave puddles a second glance. He was good at this. But what he hadn't expected (or, deep down, maybe he had) was for it to turn into an all out phobia. A phobia so bizarre, there probably wasn't even a name for it. He'd heard plenty of weird ones before; fear of being touched, fear of long words, even fear of certain colors. But it wasn't a fear of mirrors. It wasn't a fear of his reflection. It went far deeper than that. It was a fear of looking at himself and seeing the monster buried beneath the skin, that he had tried so very hard not to become. 

The first time he'd seen his reflection since he'd left the country had been distorted, warped slightly by the glass of the hellicarrier's lab. He'd just gotten a glimpse, a flash of purple and a tangle of brown curls, but it had taken everything in him not to freeze up. He'd seen pictures in the file Natasha had given him, and that was okay. With a picture, you could pretend that it wasn't you. If he saw a picture of himself, it was all too easy for Bruce to step away and see that person as someone he didn't know. After all, he barely knew himself anymore. 

But in the lab, everything was shiny and reflective. Bruce had to fight the urge to squeeze his eyes shut, curl up in the corner, and just tune everything out. He'd barely been successful. Then Loki had been caught, and Bruce had been removed from the lab and sent down with the others to sit at an extremely reflective table. His only defense was to not look at it, and it was so very tempting. Horrifying, but tempting. When Tony had come in, it had given him a distraction, something else to focus on. Working with Tony in the lab had been nothing short of bliss. And after the battle, it had just gotten better. Now he was living with all of them. Unlike the hellicarrier, Avengers mansion had very few reflective surfaces. It was just the mirrors, and Bruce had covered the one in his room with a piece of paper (which, incidentally, ended up with scribbled formulas all over it). But once he started sleeping in the others' rooms, avoiding the mirrors became harder. If anyone noticed it, they didn't say anything. 

It wasn't until very late one night, when Bruce had been having trouble sleeping, that he had climbed out of bed ( this time it was Steve's) and walked to the bathroom. He gripped either side of the sink, head down. It shouldn't be hard, he told himself, it's just a reflection. It can't hurt you. He looked up, bracing himself. 

His brain first registered how long his hair was. Pepper had said he should probably cut it, but he hadn't realized how long it was getting. His face was more lined than he remembered, the little patches of gray at his temples more obvious. He looked like he could very well have come off the streets. Lastly, he met his own eyes and froze. Deep brown and tired-looking, they were so familiar. The eyes of a murderer. The eyes of monster. His grip on the sink tightened, cracking the porcelain without him realizing it. He shuddered, gaze dropping to his hands. His red, blood-covered hands. Without thinking, Bruce let out a choked scream, dropping to the door and pulling his knees to his chest, shuddering uncontrollably, trying to keep from crying out. Silent, he had to stay silent, he told himself, but it barely registered in his mind, the blood on his hands was leaving red stains on his pajama pants and forearms, but he couldn't bring himself to care. 

The bathroom door was open, and abruptly, Steve was there, "Bruce? What are you-" 

"Get out," Bruce managed, "get out, now!" He thought he might be crying now; it was the only explanation for the sudden wetness on his cheeks. When Steve stayed in the doorway hesitantly, Bruce yelled, "you think I'm kidding? Get out!" 

Steve moved then, but not away. He stepped towards Bruce, who in turn shrunk away, pressing up against the corner of the bathroom. There were footsteps, part of Bruce's mind registered, inside Steve's room. "I heard screaming," Pepper's voice. Always looking out for everyone, Pepper was. 

"What's with Bruce?" That was Clint, to the point. 

"Let me in, Steve!" Natasha, trying to help? Bruce couldn't tell. 

"He's bleeding," Steve said in warning, "unless you're immune to gamma poisoning, I wouldn't touch him." Of course. Bruce cried harder. Every part of him was poisonous. 

"I cannot be affected by such a thing," only Thor spoke like that. There was shuffling, and then a hand on his shoulder, "Bruce? Are you all right?" 

Bruce lashed out, "don't touch me!" Thor backed up, but only about a step, "Bruce, you are safe. No one can hurt you." "It's not me I'm worried about," Bruce was finally coherent enough to say. There was silence for a moment, with the exception of Bruce's quiet sobbing. 

Then, very softly, Steve said, "everyone leave." 

"But-" Pepper began to protest. 

"Please," Steve didn't let her finish, "leave." His tone was gentle but there was a forcefulness behind it that had the other Avengers hesitating and then leaving. Steve carefully knelt down next to Bruce, making sure not to touch anywhere where there was blood. "What's this about?" He asked the quivering scientist. Bruce tried to calm himself, tried to focus on his breathing, but he could already see tints of green underneath the red blood. "Relax," Steve soothed, "I know you can, Bruce. You're not going to hurt anyone." He said it with such certainty that it was hard not to believe him. After all, if Captain America believed in you, it was kind of hard not to believe in yourself. Bruce forced himself to take deep breaths, using all the tricks he could think of to prevent the transformation. When he settled down he looked at Steve. His cheeks were still streaked with tears, but the sobbing was slowly stopping and he could breathe properly again. "I'm okay," Bruce managed, his voice shaking. 

"No you're not," Steve said pointedly, looking at the scientist's hands. Bruce pressed back against the wall, head tilting back to press against the tile. 

"I couldn't sleep," Bruce murmured, "but I suspect you already knew that." Steve patiently waited for him to continue, and Bruce finally said, voice breaking a little, "I just...I don't want to be him." 

Steve blinked in confusion, "you mean the Hulk? Of course you're-" 

"No," Bruce cut in. The Hulk, the other guy, he wasn't the monster Bruce feared, not anymore. He had the team for that; they'd watch over him and protect others from him if it came to that. 

"Then what?" Steve's voice was gentle. 

Bruce's voice had a heavy shake in it as he answered, the words coming out much less clearly than normally, "I can't...I've spent my whole life running and keeping silent, but I can't...it's always there. He's always there." 

"Who?" Steve urged, "Bruce, who's always there?" 

Bruce took a moment to breathe, "I look like him, I think. I know that whenever I see myself, I see him. I don't want to be him, I don't want to hurt anyone. He...he killed my mother." The words are forced out, and it's the best he can do not to burst into tears again. 

A look of understanding crossed Steve's face, "your father. Are you talking about your father?" Bruce's throat felt to tight to swallow, much less say anything, so he just nodded. Steve rests his hand carefully on Bruce's shoulder, a comforting weight, before saying gently, "lets get you cleaned up." Bruce nods in agreement, getting to his feet, and between him and Steve they manage to clean up the mess pretty quickly. 

They both stay silent for the most part, but after a few minutes Bruce admitted, "it's really hard for me to talk about this sort of stuff." 

"I can understand that," Steve said smoothly, "so what set you off? A bad dream?" 

Bruce shook his head, "no, I couldn't sleep. I...I have a sort of problem. With mirrors." 

Steve looked curious for a moment, putting the pieces together until he understood, "you look like your father, and when you look in a mirror it feels like you're looking at him." At Bruce's answering nod, he asked, "you're fine around cameras. How is that any different?" 

Bruce shrugged, "I can pretend a photo isn't me pretty easily. Mirrors are harder." 

He still resolutely refused to look in the mirror over the sink, and catching that, Steve moved to drape a towel over it. "We all have things that scare us," Steve told him firmly, "and you should always tell us, understand? The idea of winter makes me nervous, but I'm not about to keep that a secret, because I trust you, and you should trust me-us too." He held his hand out, "come back to bed?" After a moment of hesitation, Bruce nodded, taking Steve's hand. The super soldier tucked Bruce against him, curling around the scientists smaller form. "We're here for you," Steve said softly. 

"I know," Bruce murmured in response, "I know."


	3. Ice Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes Natasha can't tell the dream from reality. Fortunately, Clint has dealt with this before.

            She was dancing. In the background, classical music was playing. It was a number she didn’t recognize, but her feet knew what her head did not. They ached, not only from being squeezed into ballet shoes two sizes too tight, but from the sheer length of time she had been on her toes. She had to stay on her toes. They’d be so disappointed in her if she didn’t finish the dance.

            Natasha felt her legs begin to quake, and she faltered in her step, stumbling through the next motion of the dance. Instantly, a pain like ice lanced across her back and through her head, prompting her to cry out, stumbling forward. It lashed again, and she desperately tried to remember where she was in the dance. The pain would stop if she could only do the dance. She righted herself as quickly as she could, and the pain stopped.  She bit her lip to keep silent, but the cold remained long after the pain had gone, making her back and head ache with every step of the dance.

            And then it wasn’t a dance, but a drill, and she was sliding her knife down the cheek of a man she didn’t recognize, and he was whimpering and begging and already covered in blood and his skin was red and blistered and strangely beautiful. He wanted to die. He would rather die than continue. His words barely registered in Natasha’s ears as she sliced a matching path across his other cheek, the blood dripping down. “That’s enough,” the ice whispered in her ears, “that’s very good, Natalia, very good.”  

            She was fighting for her life, but this was not an enemy, it was her friend. They played together, and slipped each other bits of food when they suspected no one was looking and kept doing it even when they were caught and separated by walls of ice, and now Natasha (Natalia? She wasn’t sure anymore) was fighting for her life while everyone else watched, their eyes trained on the two friends made enemies. Natalia felt nothing as her hands found purchase around the other girl’s throat and twisted sharply. The snap echoed long after the girl’s body, now lifeless, hit the freezing ground.

            And the ground was still cold, but now it was covered in blanket of snow, and Natalia’s hair was blonde because the red stood out too much against the backdrop of white, the bleach still burning her scalp even in the middle of this nothingness, this snow, and she was watching someone, and he was watching her, neither of them moving, neither of them pulling the trigger. His black garb was a blotch on the landscape that barely acknowledged Natalia’s presence, and she could see him, but something told her to keep from firing. A fresh gust of snow breezed through the valley between them, and when it cleared, he was gone.

            Suddenly scalding, near ready to pass out from the blistering heat, but chilled by the cold that lived inside her now, Natalia still watched, but now the man she was watching was different, was across the marketplace, and he didn’t see her. He had to be as hot as she was, although both were dressed to blend in, but he showed no sign of discomfort as he scanned the crowded plaza. She had him in her sights, but he was not the mission, so she did not pull the trigger. She turned away to find her true target, and a shot missed her by a hair, the bullet embedding itself in the wall behind her, people screaming and scattering. She whirled back, only to find the man inches from her, gun drawn and nearly pressed against her forehead. She stayed, frozen and quivering, staring up at him, and his blue eyes stared back at her. His finger slowly began to draw back the trigger, and then all at once he released it, stepping back and offering her his hand. Natalia took it, pulling herself up, and the cold surged up inside her, savage and unforgiving, unwilling to show weakness, her other hand coming up sharply, knife clenched between white knuckles. The shock (not surprise, but shock) was frozen in his eyes as the light left them, one hand coming up reflexively to press against his throat, only for the blood to keep gushing, enough to seep through his fingers as he fell.

            And now she was sitting on something soft, a bed, the fingers of one hand tangled in silky sheets, the other clenching a gun, the barrel pressed against the forehead of the man in the marketplace, but there was no shock in his eyes, no slit in his throat, and he was calling her the wrong name, whispering, “Natasha. Natasha, come back to me.”

            She trembled, her grip on the gun tightening when he moved towards her, not minding the pressure on his forehead, the immediate threat to his life. His hand found hers on the bedspread and he laced their fingers together, “it was just a dream, Natasha. I’m here, I’m real. That was just a dream. Come back to me.”

            Her hand was shaking worse now, and she couldn’t hold the gun steady. She didn’t flinch when he took it from her, only held her chin high to accept her fate, because even in death she refused to show weakness. But he didn’t turn it on her, only set it out of sight and returned his attention to her, his blue eyes alive with life and so, so warm. She didn’t feel so cold, looking into those eyes.

            “Natasha?” Clint asked. It was a question, and she knew him, and she knew where she was, but she was not sure she knew herself.

            “Just a dream,” she repeated his words softly, “it was just a dream.” It hadn’t felt like a dream, and even still, with her head foggy with what was and what wasn’t, she was unsure. But Clint said so. He would never lie to her.

            “What did you see?” His voice was gentle, nudging her but not forcing her. He wouldn’t push if she wouldn’t tell.

            “Natalia,” she answered honestly, and she did not know if she meant herself, or someone else, “I saw Natalia. I saw her demons and her ghosts. I saw her become both ghost and demon herself. I saw her heart freeze.” Even now, even in the warm room, she shivered.

            Clint wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. “What’s frozen can thaw,” he murmured.

            Natasha leaned her head against his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around her. For a long time, neither said anything. Natasha broke the silence.

            “I’ll always come back to you,” she whispered, her voice just as hollow as her promise.

            Clint spoke with pure honesty when he responded, “And I’ll always be here waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to update, guys. I hope this sort of makes up for it.


	4. Thawing Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winter Soldier wakes up after fighting the Avengers...and his memories are starting to return.

His head was still swimming as he blinked his eyes open. The ceiling was white and sterile, flat tile instead of the open sky he remembered when it had all faded to black. He flexed both arms, feeling the cuffs at his wrists, strapping him down to a bed that felt too soft. He tried to sit up, but couldn’t manage to get more than a few inches upright, straining against the straps, but even his metal arm could not break his bonds.

“Easy, Bucky,” a smooth voice told him, and he felt a hand on his chest, pushing him back down as a face appeared in his field of vision. It was one of the men he’d been fighting, the blonde soldier with the star on his chest and the shield. There was a look of deep concern and…pain in his eyes.

“Who’s Bucky?” he croaked out, his voice rough from lack of use.

The man’s face fell, but he quickly composed himself, “Of course, you don’t remember. That was your name. James Bucannon Barnes. I called you Bucky.”

“That’s not my name.” Talking hurt. It felt like he was gargling with sandpaper, but he wanted to keep talking anyway. The blonde stranger was too intriguing. In the back of his mind, a familiarity pressed, insistent, but he pushed back, forcing it away. He didn’t know him.

“Then what is?” the man challenged, but there was something hollow in his voice.

He thought for a long moment, before finally answering, “I don’t have one. They took it from me.”

“If you don’t have a name, then what does it matter what I call you?”

He couldn’t argue with that logic. The blonde man took a step closer, “if I let you up, do you promise not to hurt anyone?”

Bucky (it wasn’t a bad name. He could get used to it) nodded. He felt his wrist freed, first the human one and then the metal one. The moment he had use of both, Bucky surged upward, his metal fist closing around the blonde’s throat. Reflex or leftover instructions from his mission, Bucky didn’t know. All he knew was the man was entirely too trusting. Blue eyes widened, coming up to his wrist in an attempt to pull him off.

Bucky held the man, his feet dangling just off the ground. He kept his grip lose enough that the man in his grasp could still breathe, but only just. “Killing the Avengers is my mission,” he murmured, wanting to wince at the pain speaking aloud caused him, but years of training keeping his body still and his face expressionless, “Why?” He looked suddenly up at the blonde man, his voice turning harsh as his grip tightened, “Why? Why do they want you dead?”

The man choked, “Bucky. Please…I can’t…”

“Put him down, James.” Bucky whirled around, his grip on the man loosening only a fraction as he took in the redhead pointing a gun at him. Her expression was cool and collected, and he narrowed his eyes at her.

“Drop the gun, or he dies,” Bucky threatened.

The woman didn’t move, save for raising an eyebrow, “You think you hold the cards here? Steve’s not fighting back because he doesn’t want to hurt you.” She took a step forward, “I, on the other hand, don’t have the same reservations. So I’ll say it again. Put him down.”

Bucky gritted his teeth, expression turning into something of a snarl, and, without warning, he hurled Steve across the room. The soldier slammed into the wall with a groan as Bucky advanced on the redhead.

She didn’t move, “You don’t have any weapons. We disabled all the toys in your arm. What are you going to do to me?”

Bucky growled and lunged, metal fist swinging up to punch, but the woman ducked neatly under it, grabbing the other arm and wrapping it behind his back. He felt the cold metal of the gun press against his temple and he jerked in her grip, but she was much stronger than she looked.

“I’ve fought you before, James,” she said conversationally, “a long time ago, but I still remember. I suspect they’ve wiped your memory enough times that you don’t. Which gives me the advantage here. So you have two options. Keep resisting, and I put you down, or surrender, and we’ll talk about this like civilized people.”

“Natasha,” Steve had gotten back to his feet, “Let him go. I can do this. I can make him remember.”

Bucky felt Natasha’s grip on him tighten ever so slightly, “I don’t think you can. Anyway, he has to make his choice.”

Bucky looked at Steve. There was clear pain on his face, but he didn’t appear to be hurt. “Please, Buck,” he murmured, “stand down. Don’t make us hurt you.”

There was a very long moment where no one seemed to breathe. Internally, Bucky tried to force down the sense of home that had been building up ever since he’d lay eyes on the soldier. This was his mission, nothing else. He groaned as his head began to throb, horrible pain splitting through his brain as words he didn’t recall echoed in his mind. “I’m with you to the end of the line.” “I thought you were dead.” “What happened to you?”

He fell to his knees, both hands coming up to cover his ears. “Stop!” he howled, shaking his head violently, as if that could make the surfacing memories sink painlessly back down. It didn’t. They kept coming, just a few, but in surround sound at max volume, all of his senses on red alert as they were overwhelmed.

He didn’t even notice the prick of a needle, and groggily he heard Natasha’s voice, fuzzy and indistinct, say, “They’ve had him thawed too long. He’s going to start remembering…” And then the blackness returned.

When he resurfaced, he kept his eyes closed. His head was still throbbing, but the memories had quieted considerably as his brain processed them. He flexed his wrist, and was pleased and confused to find that it wasn’t strapped down. There was, however, a pair of hands clutching one of his, the fingers rough and calloused, but gentle all the same.

“Steve,” Bucky murmured, without opening his eyes.

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice was hopeful, “How’re you feeling?”

Bucky didn’t answer the question. Instead, he said softly, “Your name is Steven Rogers. You were my best friend. I joined the army…we fought together.”

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve sounded relieved, “yeah, we did.”

“I don’t…I don’t remember…” Bucky opened his eyes, slowly pushing himself upright and looking at Steve. He looked down at where Steve was still clutching his hand, “I definitely don’t remember this.”

Steve cracked the barest hint of a smile, “Yeah, not exactly welcomed in the forties. The twenty-first century is a little more open though.”

“He’s up?” Bucky and Steve looked over to see Natasha leaning on the doorframe. She wasn’t smiling, and she looked guarded, “Is the defrosting shaking anything loose?”

“Not much,” Steve murmured, glancing over at Bucky, who nodded to confirm.

Bucky flexed his metal fingers, and Natasha tensed up. “It’s okay,” Steve said quickly, looking back to Bucky, “he’s not…” It ended more as a question than anything else.

Bucky looked down at his arm, and then back up at Steve, “I don’t think so. But maybe I can stay here? Until I figure it out?”

“Of course,” Steve’s smile more than made up for Natasha’s frown, “You’re always welcome here.” Bucky wasn’t sure he believed Steve, but he was willing to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not a great chapter, and it's not hugely angsty, but I wanted to put it here just in case. Bucky will be in future chapters of this universe, I just wanted to introduce him here first.


End file.
